


used tissues and burnt eggs over easy

by moonrocks



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Comfort, Common Cold, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks
Summary: Holden is sick. Bill takes care of him.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 18
Kudos: 115





	used tissues and burnt eggs over easy

**Author's Note:**

> Unrealistic AU where everything is fine and Bill and Holden can be happy and goof around and not be sad like ever.
> 
> How the hell do you write fluff between two characters who are chasing down serial killers 24/7.
> 
> Anyways.

When Bill wakes up, he finds the space beside him empty and the pillow beside him cold. In place of Holden is an empty tissue box, the alarm clock on the nightstand already shut off. It reads 7:09 AM. Far too early. With a grumble, Bill gets up, stretching out the knot in his back and kicking on his slippers. He rustles around for the pullover he discarded on the floor the night before, then walks out into the living room.  
  
His eyes fall on Holden. He clears his throat.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Holden raises his nose, red and runny and swollen, from the assortment of manila folders spread haphazardly across the coffee table. He is sitting on the sofa, his legs crossed and his shoulders wrapped in the quilt Bill bought him to spice up his sparsely decorated apartment. A steaming cup of coffee is perched on his knee and the television is turned to the local news like it is every morning while he gets ready for work.  
  
“I’m looking at the Gretzler file,” Holden says. His voice is nasally like he has two corks shoved up his nose. He coughs wetly into his palm, then rights himself with a sniff. “It sounds like we have a disorganized spree killer on our hands.”  
  
Bill sighs, padding into the kitchen to empty out the rest of the coffee pot into the #1 Dad mug Brian got him for his birthday.  
  
“Well, you sound like Donald Duck,” he says. “Go back to bed, Holden.”  
  
Holden raises his eyebrows at him. “Bill, the interview is next week. I need to prepare.”  
  
“Well, I can’t let you go into the office like this,” Bill says as he opens the refrigerator. His eyes fall on a half-empty carton of eggs and an open bottle of wine. “Have you eaten anything?”  
  
Holden waves him away. “Just coffee is fine.”  
  
Bill persists. “Fluids are a start, but you need to eat.”  
  
Holden oozes defiance, setting down one case file just to open another. He’s dressed down for once, wearing loose pyjama pants with the drawstring untied and an oversized green sweater he must have fished out from the back of his closet. If Bill came out here to find Holden already dressed in his usual suit and tie get-up, he’d probably have to throttle him.   
  
“I wanted to run some things by Wendy today,” Holden says. “Y’know, apparently Arizona has some nice golf courses, just an hour or so drive from the penitentiary.”  
  
“Stop trying to distract me,” Bill says and Holden smirks before letting out an ear-splitting sneeze. “You’re not going in, alright?”  
  
Holden reaches for the tissue box, shoulders slumping, and his demeanour becomes increasingly grumpy. He blows his nose with enough force to dislodge part of his brain, then tosses the soiled tissue into the wastebasket, all without breaking eye contact.  
  
“Fine,” he grunts.  
  
Bill hides his smile behind the refrigerator door. “So, breakfast? I can make bacon and eggs.”  
  
Holden meets him in the kitchen. Up close, Bill can see his bedhead, the hair at the nape of his neck curling inwards from being pressed against his pillow. By some miracle, he still looks appealing even in his snot-nosed state. To see him so undone, needing to be taken care of instead of the other way around, is almost a comfort to Bill.  
  
His divorce had been rough, the fallout even rougher, but Holden had been there. He caught Bill up on the work he has missed while he attended court dates or meetings with lawyers. Holden was his metaphorical shoulder to cry on during late nights spent at the nearest dive bar, drowning himself in whiskey, one thing leading to another.  
  
That was a year ago.  
  
Since then, there have been developments. The new year of 1982 has been ushered in, the Atlanta trial concluding, Bill getting joint custody of Brian, the debut of MTV. Holden and their work together has been the only real constant for Bill during thos time. For a while, Holden was the one person he did not have to worry about losing.  
  
Bill wants to hold him now, but even while suffering from a cold, Holden has enough stubbornness left in him to play hard to get. “Do you even know how to work a burner?”   
  
“Nancy and I were married for nearly twenty years,” Bill says as he roots around in the cupboard for a pan. He grabs the first one he can find and the dishes clatter noisily together. “How useless of a husband do you think I was?”  
  
Holden snorts. “Emphasis on was.”  
  
“You, my friend, are looking at a grill aficionado.” Bill twirls the pan in his hand and crowds Holden against the counter, pressing into him. His spare hand grips Holden’s hip and delves underneath the hem of his loose t-shirt to thumb at the soft skin underneath. “I can cook a mean steak.”  
  
“Can you?” Holden snatches the pan from Bill and holds it in front of his face before Bill has the chance to kiss him. He coughs into his elbow. “Get any closer and I might just have to make you breakfast.”   
  
Bill sighs and settles for dropping a peck on the top of his head. “Either shut up or go back to bed.”  
  
Holden hands back the pan with a smirk, then slips past him. “Try not to burn my eggs.”  
  
He walks into the living to grab his coffee. A moment later, Bill hears the faint rustling of papers beneath the sound of eggs sizzling in the pan.  
  
“Leave the files,” Bill warns.  
  
Holden groans. “Come on, at least let me look over the case while you restrict me to bed rest.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
Bill lays out strips of bacon into another pan, fiddling with the knobs on the stove. “Stop pouting. You have a problem.”  
  
“I have a problem? If you want to do the legwork for this interview, then be my guest.”  
  
Holden sets down a thick stack of documents on the counter, then disappears into the bedroom, leaving the door open a crack. Bill hears the springs of the mattress creak as Holden gets back into bed.  
  
“Scrambled or over easy?” Bill asks him.  
  
“Surprise me.”  
  
As Bill continues cooking, flipping the bacon over and tossing a couple slices of Wonder Bread into the toaster, the file peaking out of the manila folder catches his eye. He sets down his spatula and scans the information; details about the robberies, the weapons used, the staging of the crimes. As much as he hates to admit it, it does fascinate him, itches the same scratch Holden has. He flips to the next page, then the next, pinching the bridge of his nose in thought, wondering if he should grab his reading glasses.  
  
Before Bill realizes, the bacon has gone a little too crispy in the pan, the eggs needing to be turned over and plated over a minute ago. Bill smells smoke and drops the file back on the counter, rushing to shut off the burner that is glowing red hot.  
  
“Shit,” Bill says under his breath.  
  
When he looks back, Holden is standing the doorway, arms crossed. The corners of his mouth are pulled tight, but Bill can tell he is holding back a self-satisfied grin. “Did you set my breakfast on fire?”  
  
“Well, not the toast,” Bill grabs the spatula and begins inspecting the damage. “I think I can salvage it.”  
  
Holden sighs. “Bill, you don’t have to do this. I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I know,” Bill says. His heart swells underneath his sweatshirt as he looks at Holden. His eyes are half-lidded with sleep and his hair is even messier than before, nose still red like a ripened cherry. “But this is payback.”  
  
Holden furrows his brows at him. He walks into the kitchen and settles back into his usual space against the counter. “Payback for what?”  
  
Bill nudges Holden with his elbow. “You know what.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess I do.” Holden offers him a softened smile. When he notices that the stack of files has been jostled, that same smile splits into a brighter grin. “You’re just as bad as me, you know that?”  
  
Bill shovels the most burnt strips of bacon off the pan and tosses them into the trash. “Don’t drag me into this.”  
  
Holden laughs. “I feel better now,” he says as he pokes the blackened eggs with a spoon and observes the char with stifled disgust. “If you want, we can go out for breakfast.”  
  
Bill pulls Holden close, an arm snaking around his waist, and presses a kiss to his throat. Holden smells like cough syrup, VapoRub, and his usual soap and aftershave. Bill kisses him again, this time on the side of the mouth.  
  
“Or we could order in,” Bill suggests.  
  
Holden hums pleasantly at the contact. Their foreheads bump together. Sighing, Holden leans into the touch then pulls back ever so slightly, worry and realization passing over his face.  
  
“Bill, stop,” Holden protests. “You could get sick.”  
  
Bill shrugs and continues his ministrations, watching as Holden smiles despite himself. “I have an eight-year-old son who brings home enough germs to fill a petri dish every time he goes to school. I think I can take whatever you can throw at me.”  
  
Holden remains unconvinced. “Sure, whatever you say.”  
  
They kiss, fully this time, and the burnt bacon and eggs are soon forgotten.  
  
The following Thursday, both Bill and Holden arrive at Quantico with matching head colds. Holden is just about over his while Bill is sporting pink nostrils and a frown, a wad of used tissues bulky in the pocket of his suit jacket.  
  
During their morning meeting, Wendy eyes them suspiciously.  
  
“Something must be going around the office,” she says, crossing her arms over her turtleneck sweater, her eyebrows pinched.  
  
Holden smirks, biting back an even wider smile, and Bill kicks him from underneath the table.  
  
“Yeah," Bill says. "Must be.”

**Author's Note:**

> We are reaching levels of cheese that shouldn't even be possible.
> 
> Inspired by Lucy's great request on the Mindhunter Discord!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
